


His House (Not Mine)

by Cuthwyn



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Bruce and Jason really just need to hug it out., Dissociation, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:38:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuthwyn/pseuds/Cuthwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the eve of the anniversary of Jason's death. As always Jason has some not so bright ideas like rocking up back at the manor and walking into the most painful room there.<br/>Being forced to remember the man and the dead boy.</p>
<p>Bruce as usual is trying to drown his darkness but not being overly successful at. Haunted by the ghost of the boy he once read to.</p>
<p>On 27th April, the Wayne Household stands still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His House (Not Mine)

Tomorrow he would die, and Jason knew he shouldn't be alive right now. He definitely shouldn't be here, at his house.  
It was his house not Jason's. It had been once, a long time ago, another life, one that ended tomorrow.  
The crisp April air bit at his cheek bones and bared fingers. The salt from the sea just over by the cliffs blew inland with the breeze and he could taste it on his tongue. He was alive and he shouldn't be. He shouldn't be here.

His boots clomped up the steps of Wayne Manor, his house not Jason's.  
Jason studied the brass door knob for a moment before pressing his hand against the cool metal and twisting.  
Opening the door, not ringing the doorbell.  
He felt nothing, was nothing, no anger, just a nothing that was agonisingly heavy in his chest, as he stepped inside without invitation.

The manor had barely changed from the last time he saw it with younger eyes, different eyes, blue eyes that were still alive.  
Jason could see him, the fifteen year old boy who'd stood in the exact same spot.The strap of his rucksack rubbed against the palm of his hands. He had cast a final look around this very hallway before closing the door softly behind him. He had left quietly with just a note to let Bruce know he was leaving for good.

Jason re-entered just as silently, a ghost, haunting the halls he'd once ran down. Drifting through the hallways, retracing a path so familiar it was ingrained into his subconscious.  
The imposing oak door appeared in front of him and Jason stared at it. It wasn't his room, the dead boy's room. That was further down the hall, next to Dick's.  
He couldn't understand why, but he opened the door and stepped inside. The bedroom, was a mixture chrome and black, so him.  
He shouldn't be in here, without permission.

Jason closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, he could smell him and the nothing ache that weighed on his chest juddered in response.  
Would he be forgiven for stealing this smell.  
He wasn't sure. 

The man's robe lay on the back of the armchair by the fireplace. Swallowing thickly he walked over and ran his fingers over the initials, feeling the course embroidery threads in comparison to the soft, fluffy material.  
The last time the dead boy's fingers had brushed the robe in the same way, he'd been sat on the arm of the chair. Body and mind weary, lazily tracing the letters while the man sat and read to him, calming him with words that dragged him into another world, far away from reality. The last time the man had read to him, the dead boy had listened to Pride and Prejudice.  
The book still sat on the little side table, as if it had only happened yesterday.

Jason couldn't explain why, he couldn't understand. He peeled off his clothes, leaving them in a pile at his feet, the heavy course leather, the gun he kept in a holster at his hip, falling to the ground with a dull thump.  
He hoped he'd be forgiven for putting on the robe, tying it as tightly around him as physically possible. The soft fabric rubbing against his skin like an embrace.  
A warmth, enveloped that heavy ache, that juddered again in protest before finally submitting.

He shouldn't stay long, the man might be home soon. He hoped he'd be forgiven, when he rummaged around in the man's draws until he found his cologne. Spraying it onto his wrists he inhaled the familiar scent greedily.  
Mindlessly, Jason wandered around the room, like a ghost, he was a ghost.  
He went to the desk by the window and found the CD's and put on the man's Johnny, collecting the bottle of bourbon he poured a glass.  
Feeling the warmth, the burn as it joined the nothing in his chest, the ache.  
Jason didn't feel as heavy, listening to his songs, smelling and tasting him, over powering every sense he had with him, with the man. It made it easier to pretend he was with him still.  
He hoped he'd be forgiven, if he stayed all afternoon. He'd die tomorrow.

The large bed caught Jason's attention. He ran his fingers along the luxurious, soft Egyptian cotton sheets. They smelled like him.  
The cologne, bourbon, sweat with a hint of blood and grime from Gotham's streets. His hand hesitated as he went to pull back the sheets.

The dead boy wasn't allowed to do this. He'd never had permission. The other boy's were, he knew, he knew the others were allowed to sneak into his bed late at night, sit with him the odd lazy morning munching on toast and watching cartoons. But not him, never the dead boy.  
It had been his own fault. The boy had come from a different world to the others. He was different. The first week had been hell. The dead boy had lain in his own room, on a bed to soft, a room to warm, waiting, just waiting for the door to open and for him to pay the price for the luxury he now had. Why else would he have been brought here? He'd had to pay for everything he had ever had, with everything he had; so why would now be different?

The dead boy had given in to the apprehension, he couldn't wait any longer. So the dead boy left his bed and climbed into the man's, he had been brave. He'd been accepted at first, allowed to rest against a firm chest, until small, nervous hands had slipped below the waistband of the man's pyjama bottoms.  
The dead boy had been literally thrown out of the bed, cracking his forehead on the bedside table.  
The man had been in front of him, drawing him up into big, strong arms. Muttering apologies, telling him that he'd never have to do that, that the dead boy was here because he wanted him. He didn't want anything in return. The dead boy had been confused and hurt by this but he remained silent. Allowed himself to be escorted back to his own room, his own bed and was left alone.  
After that night the dead boy had never been permitted to climb in bed with the man again, not like the other boys. It was his own fault, he'd done bad things and let the man find out about them.

Jason lifted a hand to his forehead, fingering the faint scar there before sliding beneath the sheets.  
He hoped he'd be forgiven for climbing beneath them.  
Wrapping them tightly around himself. The nothing ache in his chest dulled, the weight lifted and he could breath for the first time. 

Tears plopped onto the pillow that smelled like him, the man, Bruce, his dad.  
Jason and the dead boy curled up in the bed they weren't allowed in, that was too soft, too warm for them. The nothing floated away and a deep agonising pain took its place. An agony that Jason welcomed with open arms, he needed to feel something, feel alive.  
He sobbed heartily into the man's pillows, giving him all the hurt that he'd kept inside for so long, finally allowing himself to cry.  
Please, please let him forgive the salt left in his bed.

There were pictures sat on the bedside table, you could see them from the pillow. Jason recognised Dick, Tim and Damian in three separate frames. Did Bruce fall asleep looking at them?  
The last faces he saw at night, the first ones he saw when he prized open weary eyes in the morning.  
There was another picture next to the three Wayne boy's. It was of two boy's grinning happily into the camera, stood in front of a snowy mountain in ski gear.  
Jason stilled, tears forgotten about on his cheeks. Breath, stuck in a dry throat.  
It was of him, the dead boy and Dick, his brother. The dead boy was him though, he was Jason.  
No, no Bruce just had it because Dick was there but no, no that wasn't right, Dick's photo was next to Tim and Damian's.  
This was Bruce's photo of him, of Jason, smiling and happy, at peace with the world, even if only for a short time.  
This was what he looked at at the beginning and end of every day.

Inhaling sharply Jason sat up and downed the rest of the bourbon in one fell swoop.  
He shouldn't be here.  
He hoped he'd be forgiven.  
Forgiven for breaking into the manor today.  
Forgiven for going to Bruce's bed that night, forgiven for allowing his death to happen, forgiven for the blood on his hands, forgiven for coming back.

'Please, dad, forgive me.' 

 

Bruce opened the door to his bedroom that evening, having finished out the week at Wayne Enterprises a few days early. There was no patrol tonight, there wouldn't be tomorrow night either. He couldn't.  
The empty, aching in his chest was just too much for him to do anything at all.  
No one did anything in the Wayne household for the next twenty four hours.  
Alfred sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, but there was always chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast and chilli dogs for dinner. The boys were all in Dick's room, snuggled together under blankets with junk food, watching Star Wars back to back, although not all of his boys were down the hall.

Bruce closed the door gently behind himself and scanned the room. He was Batman, nothing got past him, and it was quite apparent that someone had been in here. His robe had moved, along with his cologne, CD's, the bedcovers had been moved and then remade again.  
Closing his eyes he could almost make out the faint smell of cigarette smoke.  
'Jason?' He called out softly but there was no answer. He was alone.  
Shaking himself Bruce sighed and kicked off his shoes, moving over to the bathroom to shower, hoping to shift the sense of unease.  
It was ridiculous to think Jason had been here, it was probably Dick, or Tim, maybe even Damian. They knew better than to just wander into his room without knocking first. No, no it hasn't been Jason, yet the way everything had moved only slightly out of place, it really was as if a ghost had passed through.

Bruce didn't shower for long, the ache in his chest to heavy and try as he might he could not pretend that he was fine any longer.  
Dressed in a pair of pyjama bottoms, Bruce tugged on his robe from off the back of the chair, and his feet made their way over to the desk.  
To the Bourbon.  
The crystal tumbler next to it was slightly wet, as if it had been used recently. Frowning at this Bruce shook his head and opened his painkiller.  
His shame, his escape, his way of getting through the darkest nights.  
Taking the bottle and tumbler over to his chair, he sat down and poured himself the first glass of many.

The chair, unlike the rest of the room, was old and didn't quite match the present aesthetic of the room.  
He'd never replace it though. This was his and Jason's chair.  
Only Jason had climbed up to sit with him during those dark nights, ignoring the instructions off Alfred to stay away. The boy had taken the glass out of his adopted father's hand with a soft, sad smile.  
'I've never seen anyone drink themselves happy, Old Man.' He muttered, replacing the glass with his hand and squeezing tightly.  
'Don't you worry about me, chum'   
He'd almost stopped, for that cocky little boy with the big heart, until it all went wrong.  
Now? On nights like this? He drank until he either ran out or blacked out, hopefully the latter.

It didn't take long to make his way half way down the bottle, he'd long stopped tasting the liquor, feeling the burn. Every mouthful caused him to sink further and further into his darkness, a darkness that tonight he welcomed with open arms, a darkness he deserved.  
The further he sank though, the more the past and present Jason came to the forefront of his mind, memories both good, bad and damn painful washing over him.  
His son.

The words Jason had spoken to him ringing in his ears.  
'I've never seen someone drink themselves happy, Old Man.'  
Such powerful words from such a young boy, a young boy who had seen too much to reach that conclusion. His boy, who he had failed to protect again and again, just like every other adult in his life. Pale blue eyes fell to the tumbler in his hand and Bruce suddenly felt sick.  
He was failing him still.  
Placing the tumbler on the floor Bruce buried his face in his hands and let out a hitched sob. Will he ever stop failing Jason? 

The book caught his attention. The book that would forever stay on the side table, waiting for the boy who's never going to come back. Bruce wasn't sure why.  
Why he reached over and picked it up. For once touching it didn't send a burning pain rocketing through him, instead that ache he'd hoped drink would get rid of eased slightly.  
Bruce turned his body towards the vacant arm rest, tilting the book as he opened it to allow a boy who once sat there to see.

'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.'  
Bruce began to read aloud in low tones meant to soothe and calm. The words rolling off his tongue with ease. They would do, he had read Pride and Prejudice so many times he almost knew the book by heart.  
He was either too drunk to care or he simply just did not notice but as he read his free arm lifted and dropped over the arm rest, as if to hug his lost son who should be sat there.  
He could feel the warmth of a body there, even though there was none, he could feel the ghost of fingers brushing the embroidery on his robe, hear the tired little sighs, breath hot on his ear.

'I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.'  
The words faltered as they left his lips, the fingers he could almost imagine brushing his robe drifted away and he was alone again.  
Alone, with his guilt. Alone, without the son he had lost and then had returned to him. Alone, begging the boy who sat on his chair, the young man who now held a gun to head of the world to forgive him.

'Please, son, forgive me.'


End file.
